


What Happens in the Country

by cordeliadelayne



Category: Rivers of London - Ben Aaronovitch
Genre: Cabin Fic, Christmas, Domestic, First Kiss, Fluff, Getting Together, Kissing, M/M, POV First Person, Winter
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-21
Updated: 2020-12-21
Packaged: 2021-03-11 05:15:17
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,717
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28219824
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cordeliadelayne/pseuds/cordeliadelayne
Summary: Peter and Nightingale find themselves at a loose end in the country.
Relationships: Peter Grant/Thomas Nightingale
Comments: 6
Kudos: 50





	What Happens in the Country

**Author's Note:**

  * For [seraphina_snape](https://archiveofourown.org/users/seraphina_snape/gifts).



> Written as a Christmas present for the lovely seraphina_snape who gave the prompt “something domestic.”

_“It'll be a quick trip North, you'll enjoy the change of scene,”_ I think but do not say, a passable imitation of Nightingale's accent if I say so myself. “ _There's no need to look so downhearted.”_

Nightingale had said that last part with a smile that I didn't return, and I don't allow now, even as I look over to where Nightingale is lighting a fire the old fashioned, non-magical way. Weeks out from Christmas and one of Nightingale's mysterious sources had asked for his opinion on a cursed artefact but the source had gone missing, the local plods were baffled and we were stuck in the kind of snowstorm the Daily Mail delights in calling “once in a century”. Give me a needle strewn tower block any day.

“I can hear you pouting,” Nightingale says, pleased with himself as the fire springs to life.

“I don't pout,” I say, pouting.

Nightingale laughs, one of his real rare laughs and motions with a hand towards the shopping which I need to finish putting away before the ice cream melts everywhere. I grumble good naturedly but get back to my task. We'd stopped off at the village store just before it was closing and Nightingale had worked his posh magic to get us inside and coming away with what they had left over at a considerable discount, as they were planning on hibernating themselves for at least the next four days and were glad that none of the perishables would now go to waste.

“Just because I don't cook doesn't mean I don't know how,” Nightingale had said to me as I considered several different cuts of meat and wondered aloud whether I'd be stuck doing all the cooking. I'd given him considerable side eye but I suppose at some point he must have fended for himself though I find it hard to imagine him in a pinny with his sleeves rolled up and flour everywhere.

Or maybe I don't.

I settle back into my routine and listen abstractedly as Nightingale putters around the room – the cottage is made up of one large kitchen and living room with honest to god real fireplace and an AGA that I have no idea how to use but Nightingale seemed familiar with, a small room made into a library chock full of British Library classics, and upstairs a bathroom with a large claw-footed bath and one bedroom with one double bed.

The mother of one of the local coppers runs the place as a holiday let and was glad to give it up to us. “We don't mind a bit of that,” she'd said with a nudge that had her son turning bright red as he explained we were just colleagues and Nightingale politely ignored the insinuation and handed over enough cash to cover us for a four night stay.

“I'll take our bags upstairs,” Nightingale says and I nod as I put away some milk and orange juice in the fridge. We haven't talked about the sleeping arrangements though I presume I'll be taking the sofa, which looks suitably comfortable, even if impossibly garishly purple, not at all in keeping with the rest of the décor which is very shabby Instagram chic.

I put away the clotted cream ice cream, a bag of oven chips and a pepperoni pizza into the freezer, add a couple of cans of carrot and coriander soup to the shelf above the microwave and stand back to admire my handiwork. The landlady had told us she'd stocked it only last week with the essentials and I do a quick check finding olive oil, tomato ketchup, salt, pepper, tea bags, sugar, coffee, garlic granules and surprisingly a jar of chilli flakes in one cupboard. There's three different types of flour, caster sugar, icing sugar and yeast too if we fancy doing any baking. Molly would be moderately satisfied, I'm sure.

I hear the toilet flush upstairs and the groan of old pipes coming to life. I dig out mugs and start a brew and root around for the biscuits I'd just put away – Garibaldi's and chocolate digestives, to feed the sweet tooth Nightingale swears he doesn't have.

“The snow's started again,” Nightingale tells me, coming into the room. I look out over the sink to see flakes as big as my hand landing on the deserted moors. Conan Doyle would have found the place too perfect to be real.

“Great,” I say and take the milk carton Nightingale offers me to finish off the tea. He takes the biscuits on a plate into the living room and I follow him, sinking down into the sofa next to him, the fire fully alive and warming us nicely.

“I left a message with Molly so she knows where we are,” Nightingale tells me, “and with Sahra Guleed, so we're covered on all fronts.”

I nod. If anything, the Met is probably happy not to have either of us around at the moment.

We settle into a comfortable silence and sip our tea and munch our biscuits. For all my complaining it's nice actually, to be away for a while, even though I miss London with every fibre of my being, always have when I'm away for more than a night. But lately the world has seemed just that little bit darker and everyone I know just that little bit more on edge.

Even Nightingale has seemed different lately, though he is always at great pains not to show it. Sometimes I'll find the light on under the library door in the early hours of the morning and I know he's in there working on something, but I never interrupt. If he wants to tell me he will, I tell myself, even though I know he won't.

“I thought beef stir fry, for dinner,” I find myself saying.

“Sounds delicious,” he replies, though I know that he'll eat anything regardless.

The silence is a little less comfortable this time, which is when I realise there's no TV in sight, just a radio in one corner that looks as old as Nightingale.

“My mother had one just like it,” Nightingale says, having followed my gaze. “She'd have loved it up here, especially now. She was always dragging us out into the snow to build snowmen and snow angels, though really,” he says, a faraway smile on his face, “there was never any need for dragging.”

It's rare for Nightingale to mention his family unprompted so I'm careful when I ask about his father to do so in barely a whisper.

“My father was more in favour of the surprise snow ball attack,” Nightingale replies. “When it really snowed we usually came inside all covered in bruises and Mother would bundle us up in warm blankets and give us hot chocolate with just a dash of rum.” He smiles and if his eye are a little wet as he takes a long sip of his tea I don't say anything.

I had no shortage of kids my own age to play with growing up but somehow I've never felt it was quite the same as having brothers and sisters, not the way Nightingale did. I almost have the question on the tip of my tongue, “do you miss them?” but I know that's not a question I should be asking, when the answer is so obvious in the little moments like these, that are always happier than his ones of the pre-war Folly, but always sadder too.

It's easier and easier to forget in some ways, just how old Nightingale is, especially with the way he's adapted over the years.

“This is nice, isn't it?” Nightingale says, looking over at me with a soft look in his eye.

“Yeah,” I say, a little breathless.

We're both still then and quiet, just staring at each other. Then Nightingale takes the mug from my hand and puts it with his on the table next to the biscuits. And, careful to signal his intentions, he leans forward and kisses me.

I should be thinking that this is a very bad idea. He's my teacher, my boss, vastly older, but instead I'm thinking how right this feels, how much I want this.

When we pull apart Nightingale rests his forehead against mine.

“I know this complicates things,” he says, the biggest understatement I've ever heard in my life, “but I rather think it will be worth it.”

And that's it I think, why I do any of this. Because of Nightingale's faith despite everything, because of his bravery, despite everything. He's always believed I was capable of anything I put my mind to, it is, if I admit it only to myself in the dark of night just before sleep claims me, the only reason I do half the things I do, because I know he'll always catch me if I fall.

“Peter?” he says, softly, and I realise that I've been quiet for too long.

“Let's go upstairs,” I say, wanting to emulate some of his courage.

Nightingale blinks. “Are you sure?”

“We don't have to - “ I pause because I have very little experience here and I think, just by observation alone, that Nightingale very much knows what he's doing in this regard. “It'll be more comfortable than here.”

Nightingale looks right through what I'm saying to what I'm not but he smiles and stands and pulls me up with him.

“We can lie down for a bit before dinner,” he says. “Then we'll cook together, and eat together, and go to sleep together. How does that sound?”

It sounds so much like our normal routine that something in me relaxes. This will be all right. Nightingale will catch me.

“Sounds good,” is what I say, trying to sound confident. I don't know if it works but it doesn't matter, Nightingale will be at my side no matter how this ends. I don't need to pretend with him.

So I lead him upstairs to the bedroom while the world outside turns cold and white and London, and the Folly, and the Met are all forgotten. We'll deal with them later, for now our world is this cabin and each other, and that's more than enough to be getting on with. As Nightingale would say.


End file.
